


You're My Sunshine

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [67]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: April Fools' Day, Companion Swap, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27561073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: The Time Lords are a highly evolved species, capable of great intelligence, incredible feats of science and engineering, and teaming up to prank their companions for April Fools' Day (or thereabouts).
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan & Graham O'Brien & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Series: Prompt Fills [67]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585397
Comments: 10
Kudos: 36





	You're My Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt:
> 
> _As an April Fool’s gag, Twelve and Thirteen quietly swap companions. Clara’s vaguely amused; the fam’s rather confused._

The TARDIS doesn’t look quite right.

Yaz can’t put her finger on what it is about the blue box that’s wrong – perhaps the shade of blue? is it lighter? – but she approaches it with Ryan and Graham, nonetheless, extending one hand to push open the doors. As she does so and steps inside, she’s assailed by gloom; the usual columns and their warm orange glow have gone, and instead the three of them find themselves inside a two-tiered room with an upper level that’s full of crammed bookshelves and squashy-looking leather armchairs, and in the centre of the lower level is a metallic-looking console with an amber central column, above which a complex array silver symbols are rotating idly in concentric circles.

“Ah,” a strange voice says from the upper level, and a tall, white-haired man unfolds himself from a desk on the upper level and descends the steps towards them. He’s dressed in a long, crimson velvet coat, and his hair seems to have a life of its own; it sticks out around his head like a silver cloud, and matches his bushy eyebrows, which give him a perpetually-angry look. “There you are. I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

Is that… a Scottish accent? This is undoubtedly the TARDIS, but not as they know it, and Yaz can feel a niggling sense of something in the back of her mind; words she’d once heard from a familiar face, and words which have stuck with her despite the oddity of the circumstances in which they had been originally uttered.

_Sorry, half an hour ago I was a white-haired Scotsman._

Yaz’s eyes widen as she stares at the stranger, and she takes half a step forwards and chances: “Doctor?”

“Well, who else would I be?” he rolls his eyes heavily, as though this is a particularly stupid question. “Honestly, why are you all looking at me like that?”

“Why are you Scottish?” Ryan asks, hands shoved firmly in his pockets and an expression of puzzlement on his face.

“Lots of planets have a Scotland,” the Doctor frowns, then gesticulates vaguely, as though trying to swat away an invisible bee. “Well, they don’t, but it’s a good accent. It means I can complain about things, which ironically is something I _can’t_ complain about. I might try anyway. I think that would be very on-brand, given the accent.”

“Where’s the Doc?” Graham demands to know, seeming to recover from the initial shock of finding their usual TARDIS and usual Doctor entirely absent.

“Right here,” the Doctor gestures to himself with one hand, the other programming coordinates into the console without looking. Yaz can’t help but feel a flash of concern about this method of navigation, although it can’t be any more haphazard than their Doctor’s approach. “We’ve had this chat.”

“Sorry, no offence, but like… why are you a bloke?” Ryan blurts, and Yaz elbows him hard in the side and he lets out a yelp of complaint. “Sorry if that’s rude but like… usually… you ain’t a bloke.”

“I think that’s a very reductive view of binary gender,” the Doctor says with great magnanimity, leaning back against the console and folding his arms with a critical expression. “I think you’re making assumptions about my gender identity based on my appearance. You’ve assumed you can identify my gender based on my physical expression of who I am and what I am seeking to convey to you with that; I’d be interested to discuss this with you. What caused you to leap to assumptions of masculinity? Was it the trousers? Because your dear lady friend is wearing trousers,” he gestures to Yaz, who feels a flush of embarrassment about being dragged into this lecture. “And you are not making similar assertions about her, are you? Perhaps it’s the hair, although it’s been customary for women of many cultures to wear their hair short for centuries now, particularly when their hair reaches this particular shade. I must also note that if you are going for my lack of a visible chest, then I would like to remind you that this is an extremely reductive biological argument, as not all people with secondary sex characteristics on their chests are female, and not all people without are male.”

Ryan blinks hard, and Yaz can’t help but sympathise; her head is spinning. It had been a simple enough question; she hadn’t anticipated a lecture in response.

“Urm,” Ryan begins uncertainly, then seems to draw courage from somewhere and continues: “No, I was going with the knowledge that your future self told us she used to be a bloke. She’s said it quite a lot, actually.”

The Doctor sniffs, but appears mollified. “Still a very reductionist view of gender. I’ll have words with her about that later.”

“Gender is a social construct,” Ryan says flatly, and the Doctor looks presently surprised by this assertion, and Yaz feels a stab of smugness that this – rather prickly – stranger has been put in his place by Ryan. “It’s not her fault a lot of people don’t get that. If it makes you feel better, she wears trousers.”

“What about her chest?” the Doctor asks, and Ryan turns a furious shade of maroon at the mere allusion to that as the Doctor smirks.

“What about it?” Yaz shoots back coolly, feeling a distinct lack of warmth towards this version of the Doctor. “Why are you showing off? She never said you were insufferable, rude, or smug.”

“Oi!” he visibly inflates with rage at the insult. “I’m not insufferable, I’m just pointing out that-”

“Time Lords are flexible on the gender front. Yes. We get it. But you’re being rude and smug about it. So I will repeat Ryan’s question and reword it in a way which you hopefully can’t lecture us on: where is she? Where’s _our_ Doctor?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the Doctor says with maddening vagueness, but he has the decency to look contrite as he says it; the tip of his ears turn maroon, and Yaz has the sneaking suspicion he’s lying. “Not a clue.”

“You very clearly do, because you’re parked in her spot, in her ship-”

“ _Our_ ship,” the Doctor corrects. “Not hers or mine. Ours. We’re the same person.”

“I refuse to believe the Doctor was ever this annoying,” Yaz tells him, raising one eyebrow in bemusement. “She’s never gone on a rambling speech at us about mundane questions – at least not ones that aren’t related to space or technology-”

“Do I grow out of that?” the Doctor asks with tangible disappointment.

“-or ones about her, and she’s definitely not Scottish. Now, I suggest you tell us where she is, because frankly, I’m not warming to you very much, and I’d like our Doctor back.”

“What she said,” Ryan chips in, and Graham nods in agreement.

The Doctor hesitates for a beat and then leans back against the console with a maddening smile. It somehow makes him look more menacing; it disconcerts, rather than reassures, and Yaz represses the urge to shudder. “She’s picked well,” he tells them with sudden sincerity, his previous surly manner falling away in an instant. “She said to pick you up and see what you did. If you’re this bright with her, she’s done a good job.”

“I don’t get it,” Ryan frowns, seeming as disconcerted as Yaz feels by the sudden change of attitude. “Why’s she sent you, though?”

“What day is it?” the Doctor asks, raising his eyebrows as he poses the question.

Ryan checks his phone. “May the third.”

The Doctor swears loudly in a strange language, then turns back to the console and hisses in an undertone: “April Fool’s Day! I said April Fool’s, not bloody…”

The console beeps at him as though apologising, and he turns back to face them with a rather forced smile.

“I may have overshot slightly,” he admits, his cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. “Your Doctor is probably… well, around. Somewhere. With my companion.”

The shadow of an emotion passes across his features; jealousy? Worry? Yaz wonders whether their Doctor feels the same way about her, Ryan and Graham; wonders if she’s giving this other companion as much of a hard time as this Doctor has given them. There’s something vaguely childlike about him, but in a different way to their Doctor; she’s ebullient and hyperactive and bouncy, all laced with vulnerability; this Doctor is spiky and defensive but desperate to be liked, and he may be surveying them coolly but she can sense fear there; can tell he wants to win their approval. His earlier nervousness – which she attributes his rambling speech to – appears to be wearing off.

“Are you taking us anywhere?” Graham queries. “Or are we just going to sit around trading barbs?”

“Well,” the Doctor raises his eyebrows again, then grins. “Where would you like to go?”

* * *

“You’ve redecorated,” Clara notes, stepping over the threshold of the TARDIS and sucking in a breath. The outside had been enough of a change – a new hue of blue, and a reversal of the colours of the sign on the door – but this is… jarringly different. Roughly-hewn amber columns sprout up from the floor, grouped around the central console and leaning towards it like protective monoliths. It’s both inherently organic and jarringly space-age, and the warm amber glow from the strange mineral imbues the familiar room with a sense of strangeness that manages to reassure and disconcert at once. She feels an immediate pang of longing for the old design; for the armchairs and bookcases and subdued silver-and-amber of the central console, which is now constructed of the same material as the columns, and is glowing and thrumming in harmony with the rest of the room.

Clara takes a cautious step forwards, reaching out and laying a palm against the nearest column. It’s warm to the touch and pulsing slightly, and that’s so disconcerting that she immediately withdraws her hand, folding her arms and taking several more steps towards the centre of the room with trepidation.

“I don’t know if I like-”

A blonde-haired woman in a long blue coat steps out from behind the console, and Clara reacts at once; she draws backwards and balls her hands into fists, raising them in front of her chest and falling into a defensive stance.

“Stay back,” she warns in a low voice, as the stranger surveys her with a bemused expression. The woman has wide, sad hazel eyes, and her short blonde hair shimmers in the amber light of the console as she moves sideways, remaining a safe distance from Clara. A rainbow is emblazoned across the chest of her t-shirt, and as she takes a small step sideways, her coat shifts and Clara catches a glimpse of something that might be a pair of yellow braces. The sight of them is an unwelcome reminder of Bow-Tie, and Clara feels a pang of sadness alongside her fear, and she says again in a shrill tone: “I’m warning you, stay back.”

“Clara…”

Thinking fast, Clara realises that there’s only one person this can be, and she clenches her fists so tightly that her nails bite into her palms.

“Missy, this isn’t…”

The stranger lets out a yelp of bitter mirth, turning away from her and fiddling with something on the console as though deciding Clara isn’t worth her time. Very unlike Missy, Clara thinks to herself, but it could be a trap, and she stays where she is.

“Wow,” she says flatly, and Clara notices for the first time that her voice is warmly Yorkshire; Clara feels a stirring of longing for the north of England, and her home. “That’s… I can see why… Clara, I’m not.”

“I’m meant to fall for that, am I?”

“Clara, you really think Missy would have a TARDIS that looks like this?”

“She’s – you’re – weird about the Doctor. Why wouldn’t you? Nice little shrine. Quite sweet, in a weird way.”

“You know, when I thought about how this was going to go,” the stranger says sadly, and Clara feels a stab of confusion as to why the Time Lady looks so disappointed and sorrowful by her aggressively interrogative manner. “I never thought you’d… I thought you’d be better than this. I thought you’d understand.”

“Thought about how what was going to go? Thought I’d understand what?”

“Shall we take it from the top?” the stranger shoves her hands into her pockets and offers her a bashful smile, letting her hair fall across her face as she says: “Hello, I’m the Doctor.”

“Shut up,” Clara says with immediate disbelief, letting her hands fall to her sides, before folding her arms in irritation.

“Rude,” the stranger wrinkles her nose, but seems pleased that there haven’t been any further threats of violence. “What’s so hard to believe about that?”

“You’re a woman.”

“Don’t make assumptions!”

“Sorry!” Clara frowns, looking her up and down from the worn brown lace-up boots to the sparkling silver ear cuff. Nothing about the outfit is conventional, but neither of the Time Lords she’s met have ever favoured ‘normal’ dressing. “You’re… you can’t be…”

“Well, the last time I checked, I definitely am the Doctor.”

“But you’re northern.”

“Yep.”

“And… a woman. Possibly. Not making assumptions or anything; please don’t yell at me about the gender binary.”

“Yep.”

“And your trousers don’t reach your ankles.”

“Don’t start!”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Clara beams, as she admires the Doctor’s coat and then looks around herself, finally allowing herself to believe what the Time Lady is saying; finally allowing herself to become excited about the fact that one day her Scottish stick insect will turn into… this. It’s an enlivening thought, and yet a sobering one; she has all of this to come, but with it there will be the trauma of a regeneration. “This is… this is amazing.”

“We got there in the end, then?”

“Yes, we did,” Clara bounds forwards and flings her arms around the Doctor, clinging to her tightly in the sort of hug that her Doctor has only just acclimatised to. The Doctor’s arms settle around her shoulders almost at once, giving a reassuring squeeze. “Look at you! You’re so… god, I love it. I love the coat. I love the rainbows. I love the hair. I love… _god_.”

“No, definitely just me.”

Clara grins, pulling away and thumping her lightly on the shoulder, and as she does so the edge of the Doctor’s coat falls back, revealing rainbow edging and a pair of aggressively yellow braces. “Very funny,” she takes the Doctor’s hands in her own and squeezes gently. “Where’s my Doctor? Why are you here?”

“We were aiming for April Fool’s Day but I think we overshot a little way. What day is it?”

“April the third. You’re getting better at this.”

The Doctor beams, pleased by the compliment. “Good to know.”

“Now, where are you taking me?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I presume that’s the plan?”

“Well, wherever you’d like.”

* * *

“You never told us you were so prickly,” Yaz complains to the Doctor that evening, they’re all sat on a picnic blanket in Endcliffe Park, staring up at the night sky overhead and sipping from slightly-warm cans of fizzy drink. “I didn’t know you were going to be like that.”

“You didn’t know I was going to be different, end of.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t have you down as being so… grouchy.”

“I was not grouchy!” the Doctor says with affront.

“You were a bit,” Ryan adds, and Yaz can hear the grimace in his voice. He’d not warmed to the Scottish Doctor; Yaz couldn’t blame him after the initial lecture on gender. “Definitely.”

“Did you have a good day out, though?” the Doctor asks earnestly. “That’s what counts.”

“It was cracking,” Graham stretches luxuriously in his sprawled-out position in the corner of the rug. “But I’m more than ready for bed now. What about you? How did it go with Clara?”

“It was… good, yeah.”

Yaz catches the sad tone in the Doctor’s voice and frowns, turning towards the Time Lady and catching the fleeting ghost of a sad, introspective look passing across her friend’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You just said it was good, so why do you look sad?”

“I don’t look sad,” the Doctor says at once, then catches sight of Yaz’s look and acquiesces reluctantly: “She didn’t know me at first, that’s all.”

“We didn’t know the other Doctor at first either,” Ryan notes reasonably, even as Yaz gets the distinct impression that the Doctor isn’t telling them everything. “We ain’t psychic like you; we’re only human. We can’t tell these things.”

“No, I know, but… it’s just…” the Doctor dithers for several moments, then admits: “It’s not how I thought it would go. Not after everything that happened.”

“What do you mean, everything?” Graham asks quizzically, sitting up and looking at the Doctor with concern. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t…”

“Doc, if it’s bothering you, you don’t have to tell us,” he assures her in a patient, gentle tone. “But a problem shared is a problem halved, and all.”

“Well… in about… oh, I don’t know. A year, in her time; it’s a few years in the past for you,” the Doctor takes a deep breath and says in an oddly flat, expressionless rush: “Clara dies.”

“She what?!” Ryan yelps, spilling his Coke over his leg and looking aghast. Yaz hands him a stack of paper napkins without taking her eyes off the Doctor, and Ryan mops at his jeans and asks: “How?! What happens?!”

“ _I_ happen,” the Doctor admits, looking down at the remains of their picnic, and Yaz feels a stab of shock as she realises there are tears in her friend’s eyes. “We go to investigate something for a friend… she makes a choice… and she dies. If it hadn’t been for me letting her get reckless and wild, she’d never have made that choice; never have taken such a stupid risk. If it wasn’t for me meeting her, period, then she wouldn’t have died at twenty-nine in a grimy London backstreet. And yes, alright, she was removed from her timestream… yes, I was able to manage that, so she’s still bouncing around the universe as a sort of… functional immortal, but it was just… seeing her be human, seeing her as she was… it really underlined to me what I did to her. What I caused. What she becomes.”

“Sorry, unpacking that… functionally immortal?” Ryan chances. “What’s that mean?”

“She’s frozen in time; she can’t age or be hurt or die or a whole list of other things. It was the only way I could save her.”

“Doctor, you know that whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault,” Yaz says gently, reaching for the Doctor’s hand and trying not to feel stung when the Time Lady snatches it out of reach, instead twisting her hands together in a tortured manner in her own lap and refusing to look at any of them. “You didn’t force her to make whatever choice she made.”

“I let her get reckless,” the Doctor repeats bitterly. “I let her become too much like me… I thought it was good, thought she was strong and capable… but it wasn’t good, and she wasn’t strong, and it was selfish of me, and so I had to watch her die as my punishment. Another pointless death in my name; another death that haunts me every single time I close my eyes. And seeing her today… seeing her so full of life and talking about her job and her students and normal things… I thought that it would bring me comfort. I thought it would… oh, I don’t know, help to alleviate some of that guilt. That’s why I suggested the prank to my past self… I didn’t realise it would hurt so badly, seeing her walk and talk and breathe and live. And for her to not know me… to look at me and have no idea who I was…”

The Time Lady falls silent for several moments, and a single tear rolls down her cheek and splashes onto her t-shirt. The team wait respectfully, knowing that she’ll explain when she’s good and ready.

“I had to wipe my memories of her,” the Doctor admits after a moment, her voice breaking. “And after that, I sat opposite her in a diner and told her the story of our last adventure, without knowing her, without recognising that she was right in front of me. I didn’t understand why this stranger seemed so upset by what I was say; I didn’t realise the pain I was causing, because I didn’t know who she was. Now I know. Now I know what it’s like to be looked through, at least on some level.”

“Doc…” Graham begins uncertainly, his tone low and placating. “Doc, it’s…”

“I let her down,” the Doctor murmurs to herself. “And today I hope I made it up to her, in some way. But it… it hurt.”

The Time Lady gets to her feet before any of them can speak again. “I’ll be back in the TARDIS,” she announces, nodding decisively. “You can all carry on. There’s going to be a meteor shower in… ooh, thirty-eight minutes or so. Really good one. Enjoy. Have fun. Don’t worry about me.”

She turns and strides away before they can stop her, and the three of them exchange darkly significant looks.

“Did anyone see that coming?” Graham asks, and Yaz and Ryan shake their heads. “Good, not just me. She takes things hard, doesn’t she?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Yaz counters. “If she felt it was her fault… it must have been awful. And to not be recognised, after everything… for Clara to not know her…”

“How do we help with this?” Ryan wonders aloud. “How do we even try to make this better?”

“Be there for her,” Yaz guesses. “I suppose that’s all we can do, isn’t it? Let her know we’re here… and let her know we want to help. And when she wants to open up… she can.”


End file.
